


Death's Angel

by Kagemihari (soracia)



Category: Gundam Wing/AC
Genre: Angst, Dark, Death, Early Work, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragedy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-22
Updated: 2004-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soracia/pseuds/Kagemihari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2x1, dark, deathfic. A twisted relationship - at least one side of which is deep in delusion, but which one, or is it both? Delusion and denial can be a deadly combination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fire Inside

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Yeah, yeah, the boys aren't mine. . Not making any money off it, either. Gundam Wing and all characters belong to someone who is not me - namely, Bandai and Sunrise.
> 
> Note on repost: I wrote this a very long time ago, and it is pretty much sheer self-indulgent melodramatic angst and darkfic which is basically dark for the sake of darkness. I still have a sort of ridiculous fondness for it, so I am shamelessly reposting it anyway. Fair warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Kagi's notes:** Not sure where this came from...possibly the darkest thing I've ever written. I don't normally see 1x2/2x1 being this dark, hopeless, twisted, whatever, and I don't write them this way as a general rule. This is pretty opposite of their usual roles and characterizations, I guess. Just...exploring the possiblity. The first two chapters are their individual POVs which may or may not be misleading or delusional. Third chapter will make it all clear, I hope.
> 
> Duo POV on this part.

**Death's Angel, Part One**

 **A Fire Inside  
**

I always told myself as I breezed through life, unhindered, that one day, someday, there would be someone who would reach me, capture me, make me care again. When I met you I knew, if anyone could make me care, it was you. I know if anyone could have touched the heart I've lost and buried, it's you.

But it's too late.

It's been too long, and I can't. I don't. I learned a long time ago not to let any attachments or emotions go deeper than the capricious whim, the heat of the moment. Everybody leaves. I am Shinigami - everybody dies. Except me.

I've kept all my emotions and reactions surface thin, and shallow, for so long; there's nothing left underneath. I've kept from truly caring about anyone, for so long, that I no longer can, even if I wanted to.

Even for you - my gorgeous angel, with those damn 'fuck me' eyes.

I never thought the Perfect Soldier could fall so hard, so fast. I thought you were safe, that we both knew this imitation of a relationship was only temporary. A release of mutual tension. I never dreamed your emotionless surface hid such deep feeling beneath.

I don't have any feelings to return. I wish I did, almost. But all I can feel is a vague regret that I didn't know how you misunderstood what I offered. Not that I would have done any differently if I had known, I don't think. You were there, so fucking hot, and you wanted me - and I wanted you, but more than that, I needed someone, anyone, so badly.

Someone to own, to dominate, to control, someone to always be there when I am coldest and most in need of heat and passion. Sometimes I wonder, briefly, why you let me do this. I know I couldn't hurt your body unless you let me, so you must like it rough. You must get some kind of sick enjoyment out of being bruised, bloodied, used. Like I care.

It is a nice side benefit that you have a trim, firm body, that smooth golden skin and a perfectly tight and delectable ass. That you have the face of angel and deep blue eyes that shimmer and change with your emotions like the depths of the sea, and they spark blue fire when you get fierce. It's nice that your soft adorably messy hair is just the right length for twisting my fingers in as the wet heat of your mouth surrounds me.

Such a clever mouth. You can kiss like the devil himself - wait, that's me. You kiss like an angel. When you kiss me it's like you're burning me alive, your mouth and tongue and the touch of your searching hands, lightly teasing or searingly hard on my arms, my back, wrapped in my hair, cupping my ass. You kiss me and I think I'm going to go up in flames and I can't think or breathe, silver lightning flashes behind my eyes, leaving me blind...oh god it's so good. Like making love to fire, and I just melt into you and forget everything, taking brutal possession of your mouth and returning your touches with my own fierce grip.

You're so hot I get hard just looking at you, and you are mine, all mine. I don't even have to make sure of that, you're a willing slave. I try not to sneer when you say you're in love with me. How convenient.

How strange to find, beneath your surface ice, a core of heat and fire. How odd, that it is I who am the most cold and dead inside.

I can see in your eyes that you don't understand; the question asking, Why?

I can't be what you want from me. I suppose I should be sorry. Yes. It's not worth much, I don't feel it, but you could say I'm sorry.

Somehow though I can't even muster up enough regret to want to care – it's all so far away. So distant; I see your hurt, and pain, and doubt, and I should feel something—but I don't. I note, clinically, the signs of your emotion, the hurt I've caused, the way your soul bleeds in your eyes. Such a pity. I've damaged you. How sad.

And I smile at you, a cheery, bright, empty smile, the way I always do, and take what you give me, as if I cared. Because I need it, I crave it, that physical warmth and release. It's a way I can tell I'm still alive, the only way I can still feel, even for a little while.

You know that, and I know that's why you stay, giving me the only thing I can receive when you know I'm giving nothing back. Not capable of giving anything back, or caring that I don't. You smile back at me, when we are alone; I know I'm the only one who ever sees that smile. God, what a smile. Half the time it makes me want to jump your bones, the other half I just want to hit you, bruise it until you wise up. I don't care, do you get that? Your eyes are so sad, but your smile is warm, teasing, alluring, even loving. You care that much, to love me even when it costs you.

I don't know what to do with love like that. It means nothing to me, and if I had a response to it, it would be to smirk at your foolish emotion. I don't care that you feel it, and I can't return it or even pretend to return it. So I do nothing, say nothing. Just let you.

I know it hurts you, but you say nothing, either, giving me your love and your heart and your body with ever patient devotion, asking nothing in return. You know what I need, you know if I don't get it from you, I will just look for it somewhere else. You know that sometimes I do that, anyway. You have decided to pay the price of unrequited love, if by it you can give me any means of easing the horror, any comfort in this hellish life.

I see, with a kind of distant bemusement, the way it makes you bleed inside, I see the silent tears you sometimes allow to run down your face at night. I could almost find it amusing that it's you, not me, who ended up hurting here. I should care, but I don't, I can't. I'm the god of death. Gods don't fall in love. Sorry.

You're beautiful though, and I smile at you, appreciating the sight of you as an artist might appreciate a fine painting. Yes, I like looking at you, and I like the way you make me feel, if only for a brief instant. If only for a moment. A flash of white hot fire. Such a momentary, fleeting touch of emotion, no deeper than the surface of my heart; it vanishes like a breath of air as soon as you are no longer in my immediate sight.

I can't give you what you want. I can't give you the emotion, the devotion that you've given me. I don't run that deep anymore. If I could, I might feel sorry, I might wish terribly that I did. As it is, I have merely a faint regret that you've gained dark smudges under your eyes, and they have a deep sadness behind them now that never quite goes away, dimming slightly the brightness that they once had. It mars the perfection of loveliness you have been.

I shouldn't let you do this. Shouldn't let you keep giving, getting nothing in return but empty gestures. The mask of a brilliant smile, and nothing underneath. But I let you, because I need it. I want it. I want you. You're fierce and hot and so alive, everything I'm not. You're fucking gorgeous, and I want you so bad. I want to own you, take you, mark you, use you. How nice of you to let me. I do appreciate it, I assure you.

Sometimes I'm a selfish bastard.

Oh, I would let you leave, if you ever gave up and went. I can find someone else to make a pretty picture in my bed, someone else with enough fire to burn away my chill for those few moments of whiteout, soaring blankness and bliss. But why should I leave you when you're perfectly willing to stay and keep giving? I don't have to say or do or be anything in return, just take what I want and go on my way. I know you'll always be there and I don't have to do a thing to keep you. I'm selfish like that. I wouldn't leave you, just for your own good, just because it isn't right to keep taking when you want more than I can give you.

It isn't right. Who cares what's right? Everything is wrong in this fucking war. You're just another casualty, too bad. You aren't dead yet, and I'm not killing you. Just...using you. How degrading for you, but I can't call you a whore. You pointed that out to me once. You can't be a whore if you never get paid, never get anything out of it. I shrug with a careless smile. Like I would pay you when I can get you for free.

Besides, I think it would kill you if I left. I'm shallow and I don't love you, but somehow that doesn't seem to matter to you. That I let you love me is all you are asking for, because you do love me. You can't help it, it seems. But if I ever refused to let you, refused you the expression of that misplaced devotion, I think it would crush you completely.

You don't understand it, the need you have to give everything for me. To be there for me when I am never there for you. I don't understand it either, and if I ever stopped to consider it, I would be puzzled, even confused, but I don't ever think about it much. I don't think about you much at all, when you aren't there. I see in your eyes, the confusion, the betrayal; you don't know why you can't stop loving me.

I don't know, either, but I don't care. I'm just grateful that the fire inside you roars loud enough to silence my ghosts. You never asked me; still, I know you know. That the warmth of your silence is loud enough to chase away my nightmares. That your fierce heat is enough to make me forget, for a while, the cold that creeps numbly around my heart. That I can lose myself in you, for just a brief space in time, and forget all the agony and bleakness and hopeless dread.

I'm using you, using your love to ease my despair and block out the pain of my existence. Not life, but I exist. I don't care though. I don't care that I'm using you, and it's so unfair, so unjust, so cruel. I just...don't care.

I can't feel anything anymore. Even for you. Sorry.


	2. A Fire Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heero POV on this part.

**Death's Angel, Part Two**

 **Love Death**

You're doing it again. I see you smiling, that cold, fierce Shinigami smile. I hate it. You smile like that when you hate yourself, when you're feeling too much like Death.

It hurts to love you when you hate yourself. I'm always afraid you're going to kill yourself one of these days. I hate the guilt I see in your eyes, and worse, the grim cruelty that follows it. You've decided you're irredeemable as the devil himself, so you might as well live up to it.

Those are the times when I know you're not going to be gentle, when our joining is fast and hot and furious, and you leave bruises and broken skin. I don't mind the pain, I get worse in any battle. But it hurts you to leave those marks, and god, love, I wish you would stop doing this to yourself. Have you forgotten that I'm stronger than you, that you can't really hurt me unless I let you?

You keep telling me that you don't care, and I've seen the sneer on your face when I tell you how much I love you. You don't care at all, you say, and your eyes are so cold. You take what you want from my body and give me that lazy smile, and you walk away.

You seem to have yourself convinced that if you never give anything back, never return my love, I have no hold on you. But you need me, love, more than you think. I know you'd never let me walk away, although you keep telling me that I should. You tell me you'll let me go, and I think you believe it, but I know better.

You can't get what I give you anywhere else.

And I know you've tried, I know you go out and sometimes you bring someone else back with you, or you don't come back at all. I know too, that it's rare, that you only do it when you're getting desperate to prove to yourself that I don't mean anything to you.

Because I'm the only one you really want, anymore, and that scares you shitless. I'm well aware that you don't understand how or why you care, and you hate it. Oh, you hate it. You hate me, for making you feel it. Yes, I know, lover. I know you hate me.

I know you love me too. But you don't know that, do you? You won't admit that, even to yourself. You don't feel a thing, because you have it all locked away so tightly you don't even know it's there. But I can see it in your eyes, sometimes, before you mask it with that cold amusement again.

And it _hurts_ , fucking breaks my heart. I see you hurt like that, and I wish there was something I can do-but I'm doing everything I know how to already. I can't keep a watch on you 24-7, I can't stick to your side as if I was part of you. I want to, I would if I could; I even think you would let me most of the time.

But we're in a war here, god, such a fucking stupid war, and the mission comes first. It has to. If I ever want to be able to give you the time it will take to heal, we have to have peace. We have to win. And if we lose, well...I suppose it won't matter much.

But I want to win. I want to fight and end this ghastly endless game. I'm ruthless in my war because I will do anything to give you that chance at peace. A chance to heal that cold and smothered heart of yours; the one you've hidden so deep that now you can't find it.

And I'm afraid, so deadly afraid, that even that won't be enough. That even I can never reach you, not with all the time in the world. That once the distraction of fighting the war is over, you'll retreat more deeply into yourself - or worse yet, vanish, and I will never find you.

The very idea terrifies me. So I keep going, I keep giving, keep letting you lose yourself in me, hoping that eventually I'll be too much a part of you for you to really go, and leave me. God, don't leave me. I rarely let myself think about my other greatest fear.

All too easily I can imagine, near the end of the war, you letting some OZ bastard kill you, so you don't have to face the prospect of peace. I know as hard as you fight for that peace, it would be hell on you to endure it. To not have the constant pressure of missions and battles and strategy to keep you from hearing your own thoughts.

Even now, your cheerfulness and whirlwind personality sometimes has a manic quality to it. You chatter and you grin and you never stop - moving, talking, breathing, dancing, fucking, laughing, working - doing something to kill the emptiness inside you. If your days were quiet and you never had to fight, I think you would go insane. Maybe you are there already, and just dealing. Trying to, anyway.

I know, god I know if they kill you, you'll die with a smile. Not the Shinigami smile, the one that I hate, not a smirk or any of your various smiling masks. A true smile at last, one that I've only ever seen once in awhile, after you've fucked me so good and hard that we're both drained and exhausted and barely conscious. A smile of release, finding your own kind of peace. I hate to think that you would welcome your own death with the same lover's smile, the same kind of relief as you get from fucking me senseless, but I understand the need to just wipe everything away.

Still, it hurts so bad sometimes to know that all I am is death to you. The little death you find in the blackout of completion, of total satiation, is the closest you come in this life to that perfect blankness of Death. The wiping out of all the memories, all the pain, all the history of fear and loss. To forget for a moment the dread of getting up to face another day. To lose for a moment the weight of the future pressing down on you, dark, obscure, and hopeless.

Lately I worry the end may not come soon enough. I can see your frustration rising, your hate and fear as you get more bright and sarcastic, and more cruel. Lately your touch is harder, fiercer, less sensual and more passionate, more from anger than lust.

You used to save that rage for battle, Shinigami appearing in a fight. But you've come to see me as an enemy too. I know that. You hate and fear the reactions I cause in you. You don't trust it, you don't trust me, and you don't trust yourself. You hate the way I love you, you hate the willingness I have to let you take me without any cost to you. You keep looking for the hidden strings attached-but there are no strings.

You know there aren't, and you hate that too. You don't owe me anything, but you don't believe that. I've given myself to you, and it was a free gift. You don't owe me a thing. That terrifies you, more than anything-no hold over you means you have no hold over me, either; and you can't imagine not being in control.

You fear the open-ended offer I've given you; what it might cost you to accept it. You fear the gradual wearing down of your defenses-the only thing that has kept you safe and sane for so long. You fear the helplessness of the emotions I cause in you, the complete inability you have to erase them. The helplessness that makes you want to flee or fight.

You say you run, you hide, but you never lie - I've never seen you run or hide, or back down from anything other than your own feelings; but you lie to everyone. You lie to them, to me, to the enemy; but most of all, you lie to yourself - although you have quite succeeded in convincing yourself of it's truth.

I never know quite what will set you off; you attack me, verbally and physically, for any gesture of caring. In public, you simply brush me off, carelessly. As if you were teasing. The glint of steel in your eyes assures that you are dead serious; I doubt, though, that anyone else would notice. When we are alone your eyes narrow, and you get vicious, as if I really had threatened you. You try to hurt me with your words, your fists, your body - anyway you can.

I don't stop you. I know you are reacting the only way you know how to your fear of what you want so badly. And god forgive me, but it feels good; it's a thrill to know I can get that strong a reaction out of you. But I never want to hurt you - hell, I just wish to god there was a way I could get you to see that I'm not asking anything from you, not really. That I'm not a threat; you don't have to be afraid of this. Of us.

I wish there was a way to break through that empty space you protect yourself with. I wish I could find a way to make you see that you care, to believe that it's okay to care.

But I don't think anyone can ever do that for you, now. So I take my emotions and hide them as deep as I can, and hope they don't show too much. Keep this relationship strictly casual, strictly business. You take me, touch me, use my body - anywhere, anytime you want to, as if you owned me. Well, you do. You own me.

And I love it, need this as much as you do. Love the way you need me, the way you touch me, the way you're the only one who makes me lose control. I want it to be you, I love that it's you I belong to. If I can't show it in any other way-at least this way doesn't make you hurt as much.

I'm your drug, I ease your pain in a mindless way without really helping the situatiuon. I'm aware of that. But all I can do is love you, and I just wish it didn't hurt you so much.

Because that's what kills me, love - that nothing else about this causes you pain like that does. Not my body, my hands, my words or lack of them, not even my presence; you like that. The only thing that brings that pain-ravaged look of fear and agony to your eyes is the simple fact that I love you, anytime I let it show.

And it hurts! God, it hurts...the only thing I ever want to do is ease your pain, and the reason for that is what hurts you most. So I simply watch you suffer, and give you the only thing I can give. I feel a thrill of pure victory every time I manage to bring that sleepy sated look to your face. I did that. I know you never look that way for anyone else. I can't ever give up the chance to be here for you and give you that...I just wish it didn't hurt so much.

But for you, I will do anything. No matter how much it hurts me, or how useless it is, finally. Including to pretend I don't love you, so far as I'm able. I try, and I'm sorry that I still slip sometimes. When I do, I know I deserve every insult, every bruise that you give me as you lash out at me. So terribly sorry, love...never meant to hurt you...feels good when you hurt me back. I can atone in that way for having caused you pain.

And _this,_ this is how I really know you love me. That sheer blind rage that my caring sets off. You can accept it from from people that don't mean anything to you. But when I care, it makes you mad. It makes you scream and rage and want to run, or hurt something-preferably me; and that is because you care, almost against your will.

It's such a relief sometimes, to see it, to know that how angry you are is the measure of how much I mean to you-how much you're afraid of admitting that it would hurt to lose me. So I can't help, sometimes, letting it show for a bit...just to make sure you still love me. That I still mean enough to you to threaten your defenses.

I'm playing with fire, I know. I'm playing with Death. One of these days, I'll push you too far, and then...

But I have to know. Sometimes, it hurts too much to keep sliding by, pretending, and I have to _know_ before I can go on. If I'm going to give up everything for you, I have to know that I _mean_ everything to you. So I provoke you, let you strike back; and feel that wash of warmth and relief as you react predictably.

I never hear what you say anymore - I watch your eyes as you attack me, and see that fear and pain and desperate need to hurt me back, and my own pain subsides in a wave of relief; and then the guilt kicks in.

I wish it was enough for me just to be with you...I wish I didn't feel the need to make sure you care about me, too. I'm so selfish, so selfish with you and I'm so sorry. So sorry. God, I love you so much.

I deserve it, every little bit of pain that you dish out to me. I would pay with my life for my regret that I've hurt you again. I wonder if that would make you feel good? I wonder if it would finally end your pain to make me pay the ultimate price. The idea is attracting me strongly of late - I can _feel_ how good it would be to die at your hands. That would finally mean I've done it. I've let you take your vengeance for the selfish pain I've caused, finally giving you real peace, a world without me in it.

The only problem with that is then you would lose your drug, lose me, and that would probably destroy whatever sanity you have left. I'm hanging on, hanging on to life, to you; but...

I do have a Death wish. My secret fantasy. I want you to kill me - you probably will, sooner or later. All I have to do is make you mad enough to want to...we've been close, a couple of times lately. It scares me, how easy it is, how close it is...how badly I want it.

I'm trying not to, love, I know you need me. I know my being here does help you, if only for a little; but I feel so fucking useless when I realize how little. Only for those brief instants when I can help you forget. But I want it...I want it so bad.

Sometimes I'm as crazy as you are I think.

I love Death.


	3. Angels Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duo POV on this part.

**Death's Angel, Part Three**

 **Angels Fall**

I didn't care, I didn't. Not in the slightest.

I don't need him. It doesn't matter, what happens to him.

I can live without him just fine. I can replace him just that easy, I can find someone else. Someone else with a fire inside. Someone else to control. It doesn't have to be him. I just don't give a damn.

My heart didn't stop when I saw all the damage to his machine. I didn't freeze in horror when he stumbled out of it, limping, bleeding, and finally crumpled, exhausted on the ground.

I watched him fall, and lie as if dead; saw his broken form bleeding life away. Glittering crimson rivulets streaming on the ground.

He didn't move, and I didn't care.

I didn't cry a single tear. My heart didn't suddenly break under the weight of my illusions, as they shattered. I didn't feel like I was broken too; I didn't wish I could die. I didn't fear the dark, cold days without him. Life without his heat. I just...didn't care.

He would be gone, lost, at peace finally-but robbing me of the one bright point of clean fire in my bloody, frozen, forsaken life. It didn't matter-I was better off without him. Without his love, without his caring touch, without that insufferable patient devotion, no matter what I did. No matter what I said. That heart-wrenching smile beneath the sad, bruised eyes.

I didn't need him, really. I didn't care at all.

I didn't get angry, I didn't snap, I didn't hate him for making me so afraid to live without him. I didn't want to hurt him the way he was hurting me. Because, of course, I wasn't. I wasn't afraid, or hurting. I never let him become such a part of me that it felt like it was I who was now injured, bleeding.

I didn't scare myself with the strength of my sudden agony and fear. I didn't scream in pain and anger, I didn't hit him, hurt him. I didn't want to make him suffer in return. I didn't let myself take out all my rage and terror on his wounded frame.

I didn't care. At all.

I was always good at lying to myself.

But I could never lie to _him_ -damn him. He always knew, always saw right through my walls and shields as if they weren't there; and I used to hate him for it. He never fought back against me, ever, just calmly looked me in the eye-me, not Shinigami, not the mask I wear. He saw right through, to my raw and naked soul, and he knew, he knew...God it hurt!

How dare he, how _dare_ he make me care? How dare he steal my soul, my heart? I _never wanted_ this! Never wanted to want anyone or anything like this. But now, I _need_ it-damn him! Look how weak he's made me, how easily he makes me bleed, scream.

God, I want to _kill_ him for this! - does he have any idea what I've paid to build these walls? What kind of pain and blood and tears went into making my defenses? And Mr. fucking Perfect Soldier just blew them all away; shattered them to smithereens. Annihilated with a breath, as if they were made of dust-or fragile, brittle glass.

 _Fuck you! I hate you! Look what you've done to me...no...please, no more...just-leave me alone! And that's what you're doing, aren't you? You're going to leave me alone...I can't depend on you. I can't let myself need you like this. I'm only going to lose you, just like everything else I've ever cared about._

 _You've walked into my heart and stole my soul against my will; and now you're such a part of me that I can't live without you...but I have to. I have to, and I can't-and you're to blame for this! You bastard...you've destroyed me, broken me, and I'm torn and in pain and it hurts..._

I feel betrayed, abandoned, by you and my own will. Cut to the quick-it's a quaint phrase, yet that is how I feel: slashed open on a gut level, so deeply that it bypasses any rational response. I don't even think, I just react. I shake with the force of my anger, laid open to this devastating loss, and I have only one defense left-attack.

But it wasn't I who let that rage loose and turned it on my hunter. It wasn't I who tapped that simmering resentment at my capture, the agonizing grief at my betrayal, and freed it to destroy.

I stood and watched from otherwhere as Shinigami attacked, stood tearless, bleeding dry, in shock and devastation as the God of Death lashed out, dealing with a threat in the only way Death knows.

Total elimination of the threat.

It wasn't I who rained savage blows on the bruised and bleeding Soldier. It wasn't I who was further enraged when he made no attempt to defend himself. It wasn't my hands around his neck, crushing with as much force as the rampant emotions crashing down on me. It wasn't I who found, somehow, a knife in those same hands, and stabbed him through the heart. The same way that my own heart had been pierced, by the torment of his tireless devotion. By the agony of living each day with that endless promise of something I know can never be truly mine, not for me. Not for Death.

Death can't love-not without bringing death to the thing that it loves. But I didn't kill him.

And I didn't feel a sharp, rending pain in my own chest as I looked on. I was numb with shock, and I just stood and watched. It wasn't I who killed him.

Nor was it I who saw, with vicious hatred, the look of understanding in his eyes - though dark with pain, there was the glow of calm surrender. The resigned acceptance as he realized that sometimes, fear is stronger than hope. That love doesn't always conquer all.

The relief of absolution, completion; the peace as he accepted that you can't save Death - only join him.

I could only stand, numbly, watching as Shinigami wreaked his vengeance; and wondered why if felt as if my heart broke in two, was torn to shreds and bleeding from a thousand wounds. He didn't fight back! Goddamn him...he's gone, he's gone...god...

But it was I who saw him there, when Death's rage was spent, I who knelt and took his dying body in my arms. It was I who recognized that final light of sacrificial atonement, fierce joy at last in retribution. As his eyes closed for the last time, he smiled through his cracked and bleeding lips, mumbled, "Love you."

Love Death.

 _Bloody **hell**...you bastard! You can't love Death! Are you insane? suicidal? or just plain foolish?_

I heard his faintly whispered words, so tender even yet, and it was I whose grief rose up and choked the life out of me. Who couldn't breathe for what seemed like hours, if only minutes; not even to loose a cry of agony. It was I then, finally, who sat and screamed, no tears, just crying out in riven anguish.

 _I knew that this would happen! Why wouldn't you let me hate you?_

 _Why couldn't you just hate **me**?_

 _Why? God..._

I sat and shuddered, mind and heart, and sanity, splintering-into scintillating razor-edged shards of irreparable defeat, failure, covered in bright crimson - _so wrong, death should be dark, not bright_ \- blood that was not mine.

But it was - oh, it was. Every last drop of his blood was mine. I had always known it.

I'm haunted now, by the memory of his light and heat - _love_ \- my world a thousand times darker for having had him in it - lost him. Hopeless in a world of endless night. Endless cold. The one constant, my dark angel Soldier, the one thing I had come to think might never let me down...fallen...

 _You said you'd always be there for me! But you can't; you could never promise that...It's my fault; it's all my fault._

 _You should have known better than to put that kind of hope on me. I don't deserve it, never did. I'm not worth the price you paid. I'm the God of Death, Shinigami, death to anyone who gets too close to me. Don't make promises you can't keep - damn you!_

Now I have to try to find a way to live without him. Now he's gone, and it hurts - it _hurts_! He's gone, and I'm left with the ashes of my tattered soul. The memory of wings, of flying; of peace I'll never know again. Oh god, it hurts like fucking hell.

I realize now, how foolish I was to ever think that he was safe - to think that I could play with fire, and not get burned. That I could take my solace and never give anything back. That I could let him love me, and never lose my heart.

How foolish of me to hope - such a worthless emotion, to dare to hope - that he would be strong enough for both of us, strong enough to bring life to Death. A sick feeling of regret and black despair twists through my gut, of deadly self-recrimination.

I knew it, you see. I _knew_ that it would be this way. And I couldn't save him, I was too selfish and weak to save him from myself. He was the perfect soldier, an angel with superhuman strength; an angel, but still - only human after all... And I knew it.

Even angels fall.

~end~

 _© Kagemihari 14 feb 2004_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dedication:** this part is dedicated to Moonraven, who isn't going to read it, because it's a deathfic. She did, however, give me the last bit of inspiration I needed to finally finish this part. Thank you!
> 
> Originally posted on Valentine's Day because I'm evil like that.


End file.
